


Asshole

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: True Detective
Genre: Acceptance, Coming Out, Drabble, Drug Use, Fluff, Gen, Homophobia, Pre-Slash (if you squint), Racism, Trans Male Character, trans!Rust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9216155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Marty’s secret was that he wasn’t an asshole.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The slurs in this fic are there purely to demonstrate the context Marty would've been brought up in, but please heed the tags, and know that I personally do not believe any of that crap.  
> (also I wrote this in 20 minutes over breakfast, so I apologise for any grammatical errors)  
> Thank you sweethearts, and please enjoy reading~

Marty’s secret was that he wasn’t an asshole.

Sure, he did things that only assholes would do. He’d spoken to his wife in a manner that only an asshole would. He’d beaten up two young men in a dank prison cell, simply because he was an asshole– but also because he loved his daughter. The things he’d done were not defendable, but what made his actions even sadder was that he wasn’t all bad. The whole brutish redneck intolerance ploy he loved to display was only skin-deep; he cared about shit, as everyone did, but more importantly he was _curious_ about shit. The old-age American tradition of fearing what you do not know wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted to know more about his world. He wanted to have his views challenged. He wanted to sit down with the queers and the niggers and the deep-south crackers and find the _people_ behind those phobic stereotypes. He hated himself more and more, every time one of those horrific slurs left his mouth. Fuck, he just wanted to leave all that behind. The world was changing. People were changing. The antics of his pea-brained colleagues were no longer funny, entertaining, or enjoyable. Marty wanted to change.

He didn’t want to be left behind in history, like some bitter old fuck who’d never made the effort.

 

***

 

Maybe that was why he took it so well when he walked out into Rust’s kitchen, and found him injecting himself with a mix of cayenne and pepper, and then putting the jar aside, reaching for a prescription bottle of something else.

Marty had eyed the bottle nervously. “Rust-”

“It ain’t what you think, calm the fuck down,” Rust had replied evenly, as he loaded up a fresh needle, “it’s Testosterone.”

Marty sat in stunned silence for a moment. “The fuck are you taking Testosterone for? What, does it give you a hard-on or somethin’?”

Rust had smiled, his hooded eyes displaying more emotion in that moment than they had in years. He looked exhausted, but gazed lovingly at the needle, as if what it contained was his entire purpose for being.

“No, Marty,” he murmured, “I’ve been takin’ this baby for longer than I’ve known you.”

Marty was about to go on a ranting tirade about the effects of long term drug-adduction. But then, he remembered the scientific breakthroughs that had been broadcast on late-night television, the men in dresses, the women in plaid shirts, and the way he’d stared at the screen and felt some kind of brilliant awe beneath his shock. He couldn’t have imagined what those poor bastards had felt, being born in the wrong fucking body. He’d sipped his beer and allowed his asshole façade to utterly fade away, leave him in peace so that he could look at these people without thinking _transvestite._ He’d learned a lot, that night, and when he’d walked into work the next day he’d felt… different. He’d felt good about himself. For giving those people a chance, for thinking past the bias he’d been raised in.

“Oh, you’re,” Marty cleared his throat, “you’re…”

“…trans, Marty,” Rust was looking at the needle as he slid it below his skin, and Marty winced sympathetically, “it ain’t a dirty fuckin’ word, you don’t needa tiptoe ‘round it.”

Marty nodded. That was fair, but hey, he was still learning. He resolved to try his best not to be an asshole.

“You ever told anyone that before?”

Rust pushed down the plunger on the needle. “No.”

“Your parents?”

“My parents reckon I’m dead.”

Marty nodded. He sat there in silence as Rust pulled out the needle, and as Rust began putting away his tools Marty realised Rust was avoiding his eyes. Well, fuck, who could blame him? It was probably one of the scariest conversations he’d ever had, and Rustin Cohle was not often without control when he talked to people.

Marty looked him up and down, and thought about all the times he’d stopped to ogle Rust’s long hands, his slender legs, his slim body. Christ, and it did make sense. But, shit, did it _really_ change anything? Rust was a man, and Marty had never been fucking interested in what went on in any other man’s pants. It wasn’t any of his fucking business, and Rust was…

…Well. Rust was just _Rust,_ wasn’t he? The universe would implode before that changed.

“Okay,” Marty cleared his throat, “tell me ‘bout your fuckin’ grand plan to get into this biker club, then.”

Rust looked up at him, as if he were surprised. Like he'd been waiting for disgust, for judgement. Marty grinned at him, and felt a warm sense of pride.

"...You're tellin' me it ain't gonna be a problem with you?" Rust asked slowly, disbelievingly.

Marty shrugged. "You're still a pain in my ass, but yeah. That is what I'm tellin' you."

Rust stared at him for a long while. Then he smiled, in a way Marty had thought he never would.

"Thanks, man," he said softly.

Marty nodded, feeling a blush heat his cheeks. "Yeah, whatever. Get to explainin' the fuckin' plan, would you?"

Rust smiled wider. "Sure, Marty. Sure."

 

 

 


End file.
